It’s 10AM on a Tuesday and I’m sitting in my kitchen with a quarter full bottle of cointreau that’s been in my cupboard longer than I’ve been out of the closet. The bottle was gifted to me by my sister some time around 2013. I can only assume she herself had received it as a gift and sought to pawn it off on her baby brother, who was at university and would almost certainly drink anything. I detest cointreau. I’ve transported this bottle between 6 different post-university addresses, it has only ever been a burden. Until this morning, when I was frantically searching my studio apartment for something to remove the sparkly nail polish I had been wearing since the previous Friday. Cointreau is 40% alcohol so that should do the trick, right? Wrong, obviously. But when you find yourself sat at your breakfast bar in your pants, desperately trying to scratch off the remnants of last week’s glam with nothing but a piece of kitchen roll dipped in 12 year old orange sec, you naturally start to pontificate on what in the actual fuck you are doing with your life. How did I get here? Why am I so determined to remove this nail polish?

I used to wear nail polish regularly, my subtle way of letting people know I was a little fruity. It was an act of kindness to save strangers from their embarrassment, in reaction to their own discomfort, of not being absolutely certain of my sexual preference. But then nail polish was co-opted by the heterosexual feminist fuckboy. The guy strategically sitting in the place of highest visibility in a busy pub, peering over the top of a pristine copy of “The Bell Jar” which he grips with olive green painted nails. Thus ended my relationship with nail polish. 

What once I had discarded because it was no longer a useful distinguisher, was now conversely terrifying me in part because of its property to do exactly that, single me out. I am hopping on a train at midday to spend my day exploring the pubs of Derby. I’ve put on a Williams Rothmans F1 Jacket from 1994, that I hope will ingratiate me to the old boys one expects to populate boozers on a Tuesday early afternoon. The rest of my outfit is very plain, some blue jeans (not too skinny or baggy) and a pair of new balance trainers. It’s a carefully curated costume that I hope will help me slink in and out of boozers all day with minimum fuss, even if my still sparkling nails feel like a glimmering chink in my armour.

When did I relearn this shame? Not too many years ago I would happily stride into a pub in tiny red hot pants and a pair of glittery pink doc martens. Is my sense of foreboding a sign of regression in my development of self, or a terrifying reflection of the direction British societal attitudes have taken in the last decade or so? Am I myself guilty of exhibiting prejudice in my assumption of homophobia from men of a certain age, or that pubs are a space primarily dominated by such men? There is a thin line between this ‘prejudice’ and genuine self-defence and I despise myself for towing it. 

In my role as The Bartender I subconsciously adjust my performance of gendered behaviours to the wants of the customer. I camp up to Judie because she comes in alone and my camping reminds her of her hairdresser and that makes her feel safe. I deepen my voice slightly to talk to Tim about football, so that my superior knowledge on the matter doesn’t threaten his own sense of masculinity. This all comes naturally after years of being on the stage of the bar. It’s a kind of drag except the gendered behaviours I’m performing occur on a sliding scale, depending on the audience, or more likely my perception of said audience. 

Does my aching to remove the sparkle on my nails express the shifting sands of societal tolerance, or an utter loss of self? Have I spent so long morphing between slightly altered versions of myself that I am no longer certain of where the truth lies?

I have spent 10 years front of house, disassembling and reconstructing myself, amplifying and surpressing certain aspects of my identity as each individual situation (and customer) requires. In my wake I litter traits either purposefully discarded, or forgotten. In my path lies a breadcrumb trail of new characteristics, some more desirable than others. In my darkest moments I feel as though the longer my journey continues, the more desirable breadcrumbs become fewer and further between, whilst the parts of myself that I admire are becoming harder to hold on to.

It’s natural of course for people to evolve over time, for pieces of our identity to shift in response to changes in circumstances, and the people we surround ourselves with. But what happens when pieces of your identity are fabrications, things you have acquired not because of your own personal evolution, but because you are required to adopt them temporarily to serve and please others? When you are swapping these pieces in and out tens of times a day for years on end, in the moments you have in which to catch your breath, how is it possible to remember which parts of you are real and which are affectations? I am my very own ship of Theseus, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon, never looking down at the water upon which I sail lest I catch a glimpse of a reflection that I no longer recognise; a reflection that has lost its sparkle.